


the view from here

by impossiblesoul (veiledhints)



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, synonyms galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6309679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledhints/pseuds/impossiblesoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus is wholly enamored by Achilles the first moment he lays eyes on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the view from here

Patroclus is twenty-two when the boy dies. He had light brown hair, a plain face and when he fell, the blood from his head was dark red and pure on the rock. His mother would say at his funeral that the Gods, dear as they are, have a funny way of ruling over their lives.

After, Patroclus thinks about that sentiment when his father tells him he’s being cut off. The words hit him precisely in the heart. Cut off from it all. Wealth, safety, family. A home and a name.

The Gods… How funny they can be.

He tries to repeat his father's scorching words aloud, but they do not come. His throat feels swollen and torrid — he’s swallowed a knife. Patroclus knew this day was coming — knew his father blamed him for the boy’s death. He knew what it would do to his father’s name to have someone involved with something so severe, especially his son.

His father recapitulates it all for a final time, barely glancing up to Patroclus sat across the desk. Too busy signing papers, shuffling affairs around to look at the son he’s abandoning. “You will not set foot again in this home. I will not have my namesake marred by your behavior. You are no longer my son, have no stake in anything I own. I will not see you again.”

And with that, Patroclus is no one.

—

Achilles is twenty-three when he meets Patroclus.

It is his father, oddly enough, who does the introductions. He limply points to the man standing in the doorway. “This is Patroclus, he’s your new driver and... whatever else you see fit to do with him.” A huff, close as his father gets to laughing. “His father was a friend of mine from college, I owed him a very large favor.” Another huff, this time menacing and weighty. Achilles becomes acutely aware of the burden this man seems to have become to his father.

Achilles lifts his gaze over to the man. He’s… he’s not as tall as Achilles, nor as broad in many of the areas Achilles has already filled out divinely. He has yet to come into himself; has yet to grow fully into the man he will be. Achilles’ eyes focus sharply on Patroclus’ curly dark brown hair that falls in lax tendrils in front of his face. A want floods Achilles’ mind in that moment: he wants to push the curls from Patroculs’ face to see his eyes, to see the saintly skin Patroclus possesses.

Patroclus’ hands shake slightly at his sides and when he raises his head, their eyes meet for a single, burning second.

His father leaves them, muttering about getting to know the boy. The door closes behind Patroclus with a soft click and then it’s still in the room.

“Patroclus,” Achilles echoes it leisurely, deliberately enunciating the syllables. There’s something familiar about the way it falls out of his mouth; somewhere he’s said it a million times already. The feeling of wanting to say his name, wanting to push his hair from his face, its all familiar in these first seconds. Patroclus raises his eyes again. Patroclus knows — feels — it too.

A moment passes between them and Achilles feels oddly placid; the silence isn't an uncomfortable one, just simply a moment shared.

Four more heartbeats, four more pulse rattling seconds pass.

Achilles feels Patroclus’ eyes on him when he looks down to his feet. Normally, when people look at Achilles they are obvious: gasping, whispering about him to their friends. But Patroclus’ gaze is different. When all other eyes feel burning and scorching on his skin, Patroclus’ feels curiously soft and content, resonating warmly through Achilles’ body.

There’s a first time for everything, maybe this is just that.

—

Their days progress slowly at first.

Patroclus finds out, almost painfully, that Achilles does not speak often. When he does, he speaks vaguely of the weather, of the color of the grass changing to brown. He mentions one day, that the snow is his least favorite. A summer child, Patroclus had known the first moment he saw him. Golden hair, golden skin — even in the winter. Kissed by the gods.

His feelings for Achilles progress quicker than their days. As if someone flipped on a switch, suddenly Achilles became his world. Patroclus thinks about each bone at night, each trace of hair and skin on Achilles’s body and how they seem to hum, glow in unison. He wonders if anyone else sees the way Achilles eyelashes sweep gently when he blinks, the way the torpid look in his eye is just the opposite truly — he is simply silent. Has anyone has looked at Achilles and gone past his beauty? When no one is around Achilles glows from within, Patroclus says to himself. Achilles is living in Patroclus’ skin, in his head, under his breath.

The times they are together are spent in saccharine tranquility with each other. Achilles plays the piano airily, fingers drifting between each key. Patroclus and his heart aching to experience the weight of Achilles fingers fluttering airily on him. (Offhandedly, Patroclus thinks that if Achilles were a sea siren here to lull him into the deep, black depths to his death, he would go willingly.)

Patroclus spends too much time in his head during these days. Thinks of a million things to say to Achilles, a hundred-thousand questions to ask — but none come to the surface. He wonders what would happen if he asked anything, if Achilles would answer him in the way he yearns for. He’s plagued at night, unable to sleep; this is when the stillness is the loudest. When Achilles is far away and Patroclus is here with the walls too close, the sheets itching under him, imagining another world where Achilles is next to him.

_What is Achilles thinking about? What occupies his head?_

—

They drive, eat, and sleep — all in a honeyed existence of two souls. Warmth floods through these peaceful days and it is just them. Patroclus hopes it will be just them. Always.

—

They are driving to Achilles’ mother’s home early one Wednesday morning. He’s been asked to stop by, his mother has business to ask of Achilles. The clouds are low and heavy, getting ready to heave rain upon them.

Achilles’ view cast out the window as it usually is during drives. Somehow he is silenter than usual when they are to visit his mother. Patroclus looks back to him in the mirror often on these drives; double, triple checking sure Achilles hasn’t disappeared into the air.

Today, Achilles’ face looks clear and bright in contrast to the heavy sky. His golden curls are neatly swept from his face — something Patroclus tries to achieve in the mirror in the mornings, if only his hair cooperated or fell in the way Achilles’ does.

Patroclus looks back to the wet road. “I wish the view was better for you, sir.” He’s not looking, but he feels Achilles smile.

—

Achilles feels Patroclus’ eyes every time they fall to him; a full ache, pulsing through his body. He’s never felt anything like it before, the pull to another, quite like the pull to Patroclus.

Achilles wants to look back and lock eyes, to test the waters. But something tells him that there’s time, they have all the time in the world to look at each other. To say each other’s names and feel the words come across their lips.

—

Patroclus has been with Achilles for two months, two bright and floundering months. Deep within his chest, the increasing weight of an innocent heart being taken over is so loud in such delicate ways. Each time the sound of Patroclus’ name escapes through Achilles' lips and hits Patroclus’ ears; the invisible pull of Achilles’ gravity — he is Earth and Patroclus is the moon, helplessly trapped in his orbital pull — his heart grows light with love and heavy with lust.

When he speaks, it feels as if the world has stopped to focus on Achilles. When he purrs, “Patroclus,” it feels as though the universe has focused in on them. Waiting for the moment to come about and present this moment to them. Here, always here. They’ve always been here together, somewhere in some universe, and now in this one.

He lifts his head, swallowing hard as he looks to Achilles across the room, sat at the piano. And, of course, Achilles is looking at him already and he is unrecognizable, indecipherable. A deep, curious look in his eyes; Patroclus has never seen it before. The world melts into the periphery. It is he and Achilles only.

Achilles’ lips part and suddenly and wholly Patroclus is craving what will come out. What words will he say? He feels his breath quicken in his chest, his pulse pop through his veins. A moment passes through them, charged and electric — different than any before it.

But no words come this time. Just a smile, slow and steady across Achilles’ face. Their eyes locked on each other for what feels like an eternity. Then his eyes are back on the ivory keys, gently playing his song. The song of Achilles, Patroclus named it.

Later, Patroclus’ name will ring through his head in Achilles’ voice. How sugary and effortless it sounds when Achilles says it. 

—

Achilles’ home is large, exorbitant, and vast — to watch Achilles walk its halls is keen on watching a ghost sink through the fringe. He is fluid and light in every way Patroclus is clunky and leaden.

He’s talking now as they promenade, about something far off that happened years ago — and he’s laughing, a full, warm expanse of his throat that fills the empty halls. Patroclus is entranced by him wholly. Every word Achilles might say Patroclus savors as it drips by, followed by another and another.

Achilles glances back to him, a small curve up of his lips appears when he’s met with Patroclus’ half-lidded eyes: Achilles has nothing but his full attention.

“My view,” he purrs and the words curve around Patroclus, hum in his ears. His view.

—

At night when Patroclus has his hands and his mind free, he thinks. He thinks about the careful god-like craft of Achilles’ jaw, the pull of skin and tendons beneath that hold his head high above his shoulders. The golden curve of his neck flushing into his clavicles, the lines and veins that exist that Patroclus has yet to see — where the veins lead down to and where Patroclus’ hand goes.

He sees the cupid-bow of Achilles’ lips pucker as he speaks Patroclus’ name, imagines the touch of his fingers lingering down on his skin; smells almonds in his hair, soft and light curls mingling through his fingers. Soon he feels the surge: warm, white and blinding, cascading through his veins and out into the air.

His view.

—

 

They visit Achilles’ mother more often now than they have before. If something is wrong, Achilles never speaks of it. Patroclus may choose to ask sometimes after her, but nothing more than: “How is she today?” or “I hope she is well?”

“She is well,” he will answer. “She is always well.”

Today when the clouds are evaporating to the sun and the sky is brightening fully, Achilles’ returns to the car and slides in. The car feels warmer with him.

When Patroclus asks about her, Achilles is silent for a moment longer than usual.

“She asked about you,” he shifts his weight from one hip to the other, deciding internally to tell what he knows. “I told her you are…” His eyes refocus away from Patroclus’ in the mirror — words unspoken stay in his mind.

 _I told her you are to me what water is to fish, what air is to life, what honey is to bees_ — “I told her you are very well.”

Patroclus stares at him for a moment in the mirror before returning his eyes to the road ahead. “I am well,” he agrees steadily. “I’m very well.”

He hears Achilles move again and for a split-second he imagines Achilles’ dizzyingly pleasant smile close behind him, imagines his hand reaching for Patroclus’ shoulder — craves a touch, to be touched —

“My view today is particularly pleasant,” Achilles comments from his seat. He speaks again: “It always is,” but the addition is to himself.

—

Patroclus is nearing the blinding golden light, can feel the tips of his toes numbing with delight and warmth, he’s so close — when there is a knock on his door.

He thinks that he is hearing it all and that he's only imagining again this scenario that has played out a thousand times in his head. Though, when the knock comes again and is followed by a tentative: “Patroclus,” his wave of pleasure is expedited. He hums through it, low enough to not be heard from outside. The sickeningly sweet wetness pools on his stomach as he lays silent for a moment.

His hands reach to wipe it away with something from beside him and then his feet move before he has a chance to think twice about where he’s going. He sees himself reaching for the door, pulling it open and revealing Achilles standing in the shadowed hallway.

He knew who was out there. He knew on the first knock.

Achilles. Though the hallway around him is not illuminated, it seems like there is a white-glow outlining him, that god-like omnipresent glow that he always carries around. Patroclus feels himself react in that moment: blushing violently and remembering that he’s half naked, his underwear undoubtedly wet-stained from the events of seconds prior. His hand goes to cover his dignity, but Achilles seems to notice none of this. The door has been open to him and his glow and he can only stare at Patroclus with wide-eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it a second later. Everything is still and sickeningly silent around them.

Achilles decides on: “I couldn’t sleep.” His eyes wander down to Patroclus’ hand. “Thought I’d see about you…” he trails off, eyes flicking back up to meet Patroclus’.

Patroclus swallows audibly and opens the door wider in an invitation inside. Offhandedly, he can feel his brain click into place: slowly becoming aware of Achilles entering his room, that he’s allowed him in here — here, where he’s spent every night for two months alone and yearning for this moment. Craving to feel the breath of fresh air moving into his lungs that Achilles gives to him. His chest has felt tight and hot for so long, now his lungs have changed in an instant to crisp and open. He can breathe in his own room finally.

Achilles sits on the edge of Patroclus’ bed and looks to him again — another unspoken invitation. Come here. Patroclus registers that he hasn’t moved from the door, from safety, but something about the way Achilles is looking at him pulls him to sit.

Achilles turns his head slightly, his gaze fixed on Patroclus’ thighs. “I tell my mother about you often.” He cuts himself off and Patroclus can see him lick his lips in his periphery. “But when I said I told her you were well the other day… That wasn’t the end of it.”

Two things happen then. First, Achilles turns his head fully to look at Patroclus’ profile, then very slowly, he moves his hand to Patroclus’ thigh and begins again: “I told her that you were… That you were different.” He punctuates his sentence with a soft exhale and an even softer flinch of his fingers.

“Different,” Patroclus echoes, keeping his eyes to Achilles’ hand. Achilles’ fingers feel heavy, dizzyingly satisfying, yet hot as the sun on his skin. He wants to scream into the air, wants to move his own hand onto Achilles, wants to feel him with every part of his body.

Another flinch, this time his grip loosens and Achilles’ hand moves to the innermost area of Patroclus’ thigh. Patroclus can hear his heart beating the song of Achilles in his chest.

“You must know,” his breath is without warning hot and balmy on Patroclus’ ear, “Surely you must know that I’m… I’m nothing but yours.”

He inhales sharply. Only a moment passes before Achilles has his hand on Patroclus’ chin, moving his head to face his own.

His lips feel like what Patroclus assumes dew on grass is — sickeningly smooth, wonderfully soft, fresh and new — they press harder into each other’s mouths, trying to get closer, to become one person from two. Their planets have collided and their gravities are becoming one.

Achilles parts from Patroclus abruptly. His eyes look blown out and satisfyingly hazy, and Patroclus only wants to see them close again, wants to see the way Achilles kisses him. Seconds pass and Patroclus is breathing hard, worrying suddenly if he’s put Achilles into flight. “Please, I—“

“My view,” Achilles utters, putting his hands on Patroclus’ face. “We waited for too long.”

 

—


End file.
